


Flames and Silver

by UnfinishedProject



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deidre Ademeyn (mentioned), Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, May contain spoilers, Minor Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sabrina Glevissig (mentioned), Some Fluff, Witcher Contracts, Witcher Signs, Witcher Training (The Witcher), some introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfinishedProject/pseuds/UnfinishedProject
Summary: Humans are ungrateful at best. Spiteful at worst. Yet he still stops by to save a child.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Original Characters, Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 25





	1. Igni

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaskoftheRay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/gifts).



> Set somewhere between 1260 and 1264.
> 
> It's not quite what I remembered but I hope you still enjoy it!

The sun was starting to set behind some faraway mountains by the time the dirt road reached the edge of the forest, gold and amber rays reflecting on a meandering river. The twilight birdsong mixed with the sound of the evening from a small village and the murmur of the river it lied across; all interspersed with the soft thud of Scorpion's hooves. It's been the quiet idyll witchers hardly had part of. 

He stopped the horse before the stone bridge, running his fingers through the stallion's mane — taking a moment to enjoy that idyll that would break the moment he rides past the first window. It always happened. At best, fearful gazes would follow him and mothers would shield their children like he was coming for them — he's long learned not to rely on ancient customs. But the worst was when disgust or hatred filled those eyes; even more so if he just rid the town from some monster the young lads often claimed to be an easy kill, something they could've dealt with without a witcher's meddling. He has also learnt to ignore the comments and insults, take what payment he got and move on to the next town. 

Scorpion whinnied, kicking at the dirt before he caught the ripple of the water. It's been still light enough but the girl, no more than four or five, was an easy prey. Her back was to the river but even if she were to face it, she'd react too late. 

His right was already gripping the sword when he got near enough to bend his fingers into one of the Signs. The flame hit the first of the vodniks, knocking down another in its panic. More heads surfaced from the water, fleeting rays of the sun glistening on the slimy skins that played in nauseating greens and greys. The child scampered away, as did Scorpion after he vaulted from the saddle. The sounds of a peaceful evening were replaced by the squelch of slime, grunts, an occasional clash of talons against metal and the faint sobbing of the child from a distance. 

He hit one of the advancing forms with the flat of his blade, knocking it down that it tumbled down the muddy bank. The next one that tried to advance past the reach of his arm or sword was set aflame, fleeing back into the depth of the river. He had to be careful over the wet grass, dodging sharp claws with a pirouette — slashing at least three of his assailants in return. With light fading, he'd preferred if he had time to prepare, drink a poition to help him out — but all was neatly tucked away in one of the saddle bags. 

As it was, the Viroledan style — something Lambert never missed to call by it's eloquent name, _naev'de feaine glaeddyv_ , as some part of his vendetta against witcher life — would yield the best results; broad slashes in a complex pattern, accompanied by pirouettes and spins. A dizzying dance for the untrained, a little more than a training exercise with only four or five of the vodniks still standing. He's been confident in his chances, creeping up on a hundred years himself; but there would be no respite until the last corpse splashed back into the river to be picked apart by whatever else lurked in the water. His successful strikes were followed by ungodly shrieks — a wonder it hadn't attracted any villagers yet. 

The last one was more persistent, its claws coming as close as an inch before landing a pitiful hit on the exposed bit of his forearm — not bigger than a scratch but enough to draw some blood. _Bloede d'yaebl_ , he swore under his breath; he was running low on healing elixirs after his last contract — that griffin put up more fight than he expected. He didn't spare much mind to his misfortunes — he'll have a whole night for mulling over past choices. There was a last shriek, the silver blade lodged into the side of the vodnik's neck — submerging quickly after a well-placed kick to its chest. 

No doubt, he mused walking over to Scorpion with a sword still dripping with blood, that, when he'd announce at the tavern what lurked in the river, some boisterous lad a quarter his age and well into drinking would remark that he could've done that a long time ago. They always did, there was no gratitude in folks — even less in those who weren't seeking out a witcher's help. On a better night, he'd at least get a meal and some rickety bed in some hole-in-the-wall room, priced way above what merchants or bards paid. But, he's been used to being treated worse than a dog — that's just how people were when the number of monsters was on the decline and most only heard stories and myths while living a comfortable life. 

"You're hurt." He almost forgot about the child, lost in his thoughts while cleaning the sword. A small hand was tugging on his, fingers running up his forearm as if that would help her see better. It was nearing complete darkness — deeming that as the reasonable explanation why she wasnt more afraid of him. "There's help at home." 

He wanted to growl something about not needing anyone's help, he still had enough salve and herbs to last until his next visit to somewhere bigger, like Wyzim or Oxenfurt — his lips opening and closing without a sound instead. He sheathed the sword, securing the latches and clasps before hoisting the child onto the horse — going through the motions without words. There was a soft squeal and an almost indignant snort from Scorpion, only quieting when he brushed a hand along its withers. 

The ride into the village couldn't take more than five minutes with a house on the edge pointed out to him. There was a light on and he could see through the windows a vague form pacing up and down. A concerned parent, perhaps; something that was missing from a witcher's life — and though Vesemir came close to it, it was an experience he would never truly have. The figure had to see them as well as there was a door smacking against the stones even before he was halfway off the horse. 

"Lilja!" A feminine voice called, panicked and angry but trying her best to conceal it. "Lilja, you should've been home an hour ago!" 

The stranger's eyes met his as he lowered the child, Lilja, to the ground and there was a soft _'oh'_ falling from her lips in embarrassment. He's been wrong, he realised as the light of the candle illuminated her face — she couldn't been more than sixteen. A sister then — not as if that made much of a difference. There was a stern command for Lilja to get inside and clean up a little before she stepped up to where he stood by the garden gate. 

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience my sister caused, master witcher." She's been playing with the lacing of her blouse while speaking; embarrassed but not afraid. Maybe he should've cut in, wave it off as only doing his job and move on to the tavern. But the way those brown eyes gazed at him without flinching rooted him to the spot — it's been a long time ago he's been shown anything better than mild annoyance. "I can't offer a payment, not in money-" she held a pause with a sheepish look crossing her face, and he knew his answer would be no to the following offer, "but as I understand, my sister offered healing. I'm not as talented as my mother was or a match for sorcerers but I would hate to own yet another debt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naev'de Feaine Glaeddyv — Nine Sun Swords  
> Bloede d'yaebl — Bloody devil ('cause there's no word for hell in han llinge)
> 
> Chronologically, Eskel wouldn't have Scorpion yet. But I decided it's a "family tradition" of naming horses.  
> Ending's a bit of cliffhanger since I was originally planning to expand it — which still might happen, at some very far point.


	2. Quen

Even after all his insistence that it wouldn't be necessary, he's somehow found himself within the small house. The main room, that doubled as a kitchen, was decorated with a wide array of drying herbs; some he knew, some that were no use to witchers and some that was foreign even to someone as well-travelled as him. Another smell, savoury and heavy of spices wafted in the air; maybe a stew that was cooking just before they arrived — it was the smell of _home_ for them. 

For him, it was old stones and dusty tomes bound in leather, mountain air with an ever-present hint of snow, or sweat, blood, and metal after a day of training. Kaer Morhen was his home with only faint memories of what it was like before. A house similar to this in some mountains and a tune of the hill-folk about hens. He was afraid when setting out with Vesemir, no older than Lilja could be now — he was tall and slim, lanky, and never really a fighter. The keep felt intimidating and empty even then with two dozen witchers and twice as much if not more children. It was even emptier now with only the five of them. 

He was quiet the whole time, save for offering his name in return to hers. He didn't make a sound, there were no hisses or winces as she set to cleaning the wound. Jeltje was practiced though awkward, splashing water onto her own clothes when giving a quick rinse to his forearm. A soft swearing spilled from her lips, mispronounced words from the elven tongue — followed by a flush of her cheeks, light, reminding him of fuzzy peach. The silence was only broken after her request of taking a seat by the scrape of the chair against stone and the clinks of vials she lined along the table. 

Her fingers were a lot softer than most contact he had, twisting and turning his arm to have a better look. It was nothing, it would heal up in a matter of days — quicker and without a trace if he used any of the witcher elixirs. She hummed, probably concluding how to best go about the scar; picking up a cloth previously dipped in water. 

"I wouldn't bother with the tavern." There was something in her voice that ofttimes was directed at him; but he's seen no trace of contempt in those eyes as they lifted for a moment. They were quick to avert back to the wound, dabbing the wet cloth along the length to clean the mud, slime, and blood clinging to his skin. She was thorough, he couldn't deny that — and given all he learnt in the little time knowing her, she had to have a good reason for those words. "People here don't like the... unnatural." 

That was nothing new to him but her tone and the way she talked about the villagers made him certain Jeltje knew more than she let on. He knew that Geralt was hard to miss with so drastic mutations and no small part to the poet Dandelion's works, but most people didn't look at him long enough to catch the golden of his eyes — yet she didn't hesitate to call him a witcher. She wasn't a sorceress, untrained or otherwise; there was no tingling to her touch that was telling of magic, even of so little as witchers'. 

"Does the village face that many of the unnatural?" They had vodniks lurking by the bridge after all; and where one problem was present, expecting more wasn't unreasonable. There was a frown on her lips, and he suspected it was more personal — though she didn't look any different than regular folk down in Lyria. 

"Oh, not much at all. Not counting _those_." She made a pointed look at the scar, that now she wiped with something familiar to him though a more diluted concoction than what the reserves of Kaer Morhen held. "But we had a witcher crossing through a few years back." 

He wondered if it was one of his brothers or someone from another school that didn't have its numbers decimated. It wasn't a memory he liked to dwell on — it was the first taste of the human's hatred even if he wasn't present. But her words hinted at events that weren't beneficial to either party — nightfall probably caught the poor bastard like him but without a job to do, there wasn't much warm welcome. And if there was, he was probably arrogant about it; he was young and proud once — and he knew Lambert wasn't garnering much gratitude either wherever he went. 

"It was before... before the river was inhabited." She wanted to say something else, he was certain of it from how she hesitated in the middle of her sentence or how she struggled to open the second jar. There was a small thanks as he handed back the now lidless container, giving her hand a faint squeeze — he wasn't good at comforting people but it was a simple enough gesture to not be misunderstood. "People have a hard time acknowledging there is anything in the waters. Was, I assume. Even when it was obvious something attacked them, they always shrugged it off as another drunkard drowning." 

Her body tensed up in anger, knuckles paling before she sent him a sheepish gaze — refocusing her attention to the wound. He remained silent, unsure what could he even say; and witchers were the last person anyone would seek consolation from. The balm she covered the gauze with before applying to his skin carried the unmistakable bitterness of calendula and something sweet to balance it, much stronger but he couldn't point it out. Not as if it mattered — and not like that was the question he wanted to ask. It was clear she lost someone from how worried she was because of Lilja or how anger flared in her when talking about the villagers' treatment of others. 

"We lost father that way." She was calm speaking of it, her tone almost as emotionless as the witchers' own. "I wasn't surprised that they said that. That he drowned after a night of drinking. It was just a question of time. But I've seen the body even if the crones tried to spare me from it." 

He's seen enough mangled corpses to know it was anything but pleasant. And, even though he was supposed to take no sides in the affairs of men, he could understand why the elders made that decision. When he was her age, the only bodies he's seen was of his fellow witchers-in-training who couldn't pass the Trial of the Grasses and the Changes — and even then, Vesemir and the others tried to spare them the sight. He was worried Geralt would end up in one of the plain pine coffins, too; staying up late at nights to pray to whatever god would answer to him — Geralt was his only friend at Kaer Morhen at the time. 

"And done." He was about to offer some condolences but the shift in her tone was all the indication he needed to bite back the words. While she packed away the supplies, he checked over the bandages; flexing his fingers to see if they would last. She's done a remarkable job despite her claim of not having much talent — he's been patched up worse by physicians in the past. 

It was his turn to feel awkward, standing by the door, and ready to leave — it shouldn't have been that hard. Lilja stormed into the room before he could slip away, prompting another but considerably softer swearing as she almost knocked her sister over. She came to a halt rounding the table and seeing him, letting out a little squeak — but instead of hiding behind the table and chairs, she marched on with a pouty face of determination. Small arms wrapped around him in a brief hug before pulling back with a hesitant smile. "Thank you." 

He was a witcher, always ready for the unexpected yet he somehow couldn't find his voice to accept or dismiss the gratitude. The last time when someone — he didn't even recall the last time when it wasn't a half-hearted or half-drunk grumble with a coin purse tossed into his hand with the same motion he was sent on his way. And even then, swears and slurs were thrown around as soon he turned his back, believed to be out of earshot. 

"Lilja, sit down. You're making him uncomfortable." There was a chuckle somewhere deep within, wanting to slip past his lips to wave off the concerns; unused was perhaps a better word. It was usually him making people uncomfortable; golden eyes and horrid scars that not even all the witchers could look at without flinching. Not a pleasant sight, he had to admit, but nothing was in his profession. "You're joining us for the night, right?" 

Having set the table for three already seemed to have made the choice for him — though he wasn't sure if it wasn't just a prelude to what he already assumed once. _For the night_ implied more than dinner, more than just lodgings; and he'd rather spend another night on the road or in a tavern where leering and insults, hate and fear followed his every motion. He was about to refuse when her eyes met his, there was concern only and something that told him it wasn't much of a question — and, he realised, it was naive to think women of any age would look at him like that; he wasn't Geralt with someone always trying to take his pants off. 

"Right." Arguing with her felt like arguing with Vesemir — pointless. 

* * *

After dinner, which was almost strange with how peaceful, how quiet it was, he tried to leave again. No one would've been able to stop him if he just rode off on Scorpion when he moved him to the old stable behind the house. Yet he was now sitting on a bed, wider and softer than any he's slept in in the last decade or two, watching his reflection in the cracked mirror of a vanity. Cat-like, golden eyes stared back at him with the old scars running down his cheek as always; everything looked the same except for the bandages on his left. He was confused as to why then, was he treated with compassion — but the approaching footsteps didn't allow him to ponder much.

There was a soft knock but even before the door opened with a creak, he could tell it was Jeltje. He could even hear the little sigh of relief she tried to hide, probably worried that he would be in a state of undress or already asleep. That, at least, dispersed his returning concerns about intentions behind his stay. 

"I didn't want to bother but you're welcome to stay for breakfast." He heard himself express his gratitude and assurance that she wasn't bothering — but he knew already that his bed would be empty by the time they awaken, having snuck away before dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline so far was pre Ciri at Kaer Morhen, and while I might reference events from the books or games, I'm not going to follow/focus on the main events. There are going to be jumps in time between chapters which ultimately, I think, won't affect the overarching plot.  
> Also, I narrowed down the timeframe these chapter take place to between 1260-64.  
> Figths, witchers and more in the next chapter! And as always, I appreciate your thoughts so let me know what you like or what could use some work.


	3. Aard

It didn't get more pleasant with the years, no matter what instructors at Kaer Morhen said. To call witcher elixirs an acquired taste was a stretch — but it stayed down easier. He shuddered as the mixture of potions and herbal decoctions started to take effect. His vision adjusted first to the quickly falling dusk; what were vivid colours in daylight now painted with more shades of grey than he could name. At the same time his pupils dilated that only a halo of golden was visible, his hearing sharpened — he could make out the growling of dogs on the other side of town or the beat of songs drifting from a tavern. 

His skin paled, and if it wasn't for the hair and scars, he could pass as Geralt's twin. It caused Vesemir some annoyed moments, when, before the Trial and Changes they swapped places. He huffed out a chuckle at that, the closest witchers and their neutrality got to amusement — and the only sound he otherwise made. Potions — poisons for the uninitiated — slowed heartbeat enough that he hardly needed a breath of air; in the past he's been thought dead with the potion active and eyes closed in meditation. 

The shutters were closed on the gravedigger's office that was granted for him, but a thin stripe of moonlight ran across the room; glinting off the silver sword that laid bared on the table. He pulled out vials from the wooden box, pushing each back into its compartment with a grumble — he'd swore one of them was sword oil. _Aha._ His fingers finally wrapped around one, his thumb brushing across a label that read something unrelated in a neat handwriting. _Take these witcher_ , he remembered the note saying, _if you need anything, you know where to come back to_. 

Dwelling on memories helped nothing, even less so during a fight. Though which fight didn't promise to be long or tiring — two ghouls, three perhaps that inhabited the old crypt in the cemetery's corner. He tried to recall the details of the outline of leaning slabs of cracked stone and rotting wood nailed together into a makeshift crosses. Undergrowth was taking over the place with no one daring to enter the premises in the past weeks; he'd need to be careful with vines as with loose terrain. 

_"It means corpse-eater."_ He remembered the explanation and his gut reaction to seeing the etching for the first time as a young witcher-in-training — a gut reaction taken quite literally. _"But if they can't find one, they'll attack the living. Knock 'em down, tear them up and leave them rot until the body is to their taste."_ There was only a handful of worse deaths he could imagine than being mangled, likely alive — though most would probably be unconscious from fear or pain by that time. Not a witcher though, whose job is killing monsters while being one themselves. 

He didn't agree with the sentiment but no one asked witchers — they were objects in people's hands how soldiers were but only a toy to kings and mages. It shouldn't matter much as long the pay was good; a hundred Lintar for each slain ghoul sounded reasonable enough — unless Henselt and the Kaedweni financiers played with the exchange rates again. He should be able to afford lodgings and meals on his way back to Kaer Morhen even without taking another contract; the lands of the Hengfors League and it's neighbouring regions saw little of the troubles that plagued the borderlands north of Nilfgaard. 

It was a second or two after he packed away the wooden box and the cloth he applied the blade coating with; a drawn-out, low creak. The door to the crypt. Right hand on the hilt, he moved to a window where a slight gap was between the shutters; the full moon casting sharp shadows. And there, not even fifty yards away, the first ghoul creeped out of their hiding. He slipped out the door, aware that it could be fatal to be trapped inside with even one. 

Grotesque how the scratch of talons into the hardened ground sounded as the shovels of a grave robber's did — though they looked for different pieces to take. That first one hardly noticed his approach — for someone his sizes, his steps were almost as soft as a dryad's. A clean cut through the back if its neck as it perked up sensing the danger he posed; the head bowing down before the body fell into the disturbed soil. The thud, and likely the lack of food, drawn out the other ghouls; a smaller one accompanying one ugly bastard. 

He sent the smaller one flying into a headstone with a flick of his wrist and bend of fingers, unable to decide if the crunching noise was bones or the stone giving out under the impact. The bigger slashed at him, but it only cut through the air where he a second before stood. _Always parry after a dodge_ , Vesemir's lesson was now a reflex, followed by a downward dexter that wasn't enough to take the ghoul down. A lunge and a thrust, dislodging the blade from its ribcage with an outward slash and a half-pirouette; cutting the arm off a good palm below a shoulder. 

He was behind it now, arms and chest splattered with blood. The _Temerian Devil_ , how Vesemir once dubbed the style had that unfortunate disadvantage — heavy blows but hard to step away in time. The ghoul stumbled, rapidly losing strength as the poison from his blade acted — a quick use of Aard and he could stab it through the heart, already splayed on the ground. The smaller one was approaching him again from his right, gurgling in anger and baring its teeth. 

A feint forced it to weave around another headstone, and, with a quarter turn, he already had the better position. From there, even a simple Igni would've been enough but that sign was hardly more than a magic trick on most occasions. His slash caught it in its side, just above whatever hip such disfigured body had — sliced almost in two as it crumbled to the ground dead. He heaved a breath, more out of satisfaction than of real need — it took him all but ten minutes, a quarter perhaps. 

He checked the crypt; nothing but bones and other residue from carcasses. Three hundred then — he just hoped they won't try to negotiate a lower price. Ghoul blood, sometimes used by alchemists, was more pain to extract than its worth; not a viable side earning. He left the lifeless bodies where they fell, the people could do with them as they pleased though wisest would be to burn them — the preferred method of witchers in regards to dealing with the dead. 

* * *

The tavern was still loud even if it was close to midnight. A fistfight seemed to be brewing in the corner across from him. Nothing unusual; including the fearful or disgusted stares. A few slurs — _freak, bastard_ — greeted him upon entrance, bloodied and still sickly pale from the elixirs. He then spent the following hour removing the stains from his jacket, bathed and dined — though there was hardly anything on offer other than scraps or a cold meal. Still better than nothing — contrary to widespread rumours, witchers weren't inhuman in that aspect. 

He's been nursing a tankard of ale in his hands, different conversations buzzing around him he could easily listen in to. Most was drunk boasting of deeds he found unlikely to be true, remarks about which maid was the most docile in bed or discussions about politics with a layman's insight. Travelled he might've been but politics and wars, a king's affairs he wasn't much versed either. 

"Have you heard the news from Caingorn?" The question caught his attention even if he wasn't the one asked; Caingorn was a memory long buried. Lambert made remarks about his strange insistence of avoiding the principality whenever his Path lead to the north. It might've been nothing, something unrelated about agriculture or some other noble house — but such was Destiny he already feared where the conversation would go. 

"You mean about the young princess? That I did. Mighty fine lass, would be a shame if she resembled her aunt." It's been two decades since but there was only one person of noble birth that warranted such concerns. _Deidre._ He got a letter some years later but even touching it when casting it into the fire was a task he was wary of. _The Law of Surprise_ — indeed, it was just as much a surprise for him than to the prince whose life he saved. Not a pleasant one but the saying held true, people can learn from their mistakes. 

"Nay, that girl's been hardly any trouble since that witch Gleswig or Glevissig was banished." Sabrina, who turned brother against sister just for her own interests — so she could have one more subject to study the effects of a so-called curse. Born under a Black Sun, they said; but none of the mages' notes he acquired over the years had much base other than speculation. More likely that the young girls cracked under the pressure of being feared and supervised for any manifestation of the curse from a young age. A question of philosophy and psychology, rather. 

And though he tried to cut any ties to Caingorn and the Ademeyns, he felt relieved hearing such news. The siblings' reconciliation seemed to last without the sorceress' interference and, maybe, the next year when he set out on the Path, he wouldn't need to make such measures to avoid the mountains north of Kovir and the Hengfors League. 

He lost interest in the conversation when it turned into a discussion of the young princess' assets and the shame that he was married off so soon after her coming of age. And he was called disgusting and a creep — but he kept quiet, taking a swig from his now warm ale as another memory chased the last. She reminded him much of Deidre in looks, though with hair a blond in the shade of a summer field before harvest — and a personality that couldn't be farther from Deidre's. 

Often was an overstatement but from time to time the sisters crossed his mind; the village was near Dol Angra where small clashes between the locals and Nilfgaard were almost a daily occurrence. He wasn't sure if it's been two or three winters ago — and although the note attached to vials of various distillations and extracts welcomed him back, he hadn't visited. _Neutrality_ — a concept so ingrained to witchers kept him from doing so, and fears that he'd never leave if there was a next time. No, his loyalty, and home, laid in Kaer Morhen; the witchers' crumbling keep where he was returning to — this year, earlier than most.


	4. Axii

Even though he arrived back to Kaer Morhen a lot earlier than he usually did — that being a fortnight before the night of Midinvaerne — he was still second to last, with only Geralt running later than him. Five of them would be spending the winter at the keep it seemed; Vesemir who never strayed far into the Kaedweni lands, Lambert whose sour mood was never improved by the idleness of winter, and Coën, hailing from another School. He made quick acquaintances with the latter, welcoming him like a brother he knew from a young age; how it was with Geralt and Lambert, one growing up with him and the other mentored by him. 

First nights upon returning home were always spent drinking and swapping tales; although there wasn't much else to do. Repairs to the crumbling walls or cleaning, something none of them was skillful at, training on the gauntlet or a few hunts in the nearby forest. But even on those days, when their skin flushed from the freezing wind, there would be drinks passed around, stories exchanged and jokes made — and even if he sometimes shared Lambert's frustration about being cooped up like chickens, he couldn't imagine his winters differently. There always seemed to be a smile on Vesemir's lips when one of them arrived, even if he was a firm believer of their neutrality — calling them _child_ was more than an empty phrase. 

"Any news about Geralt?" He wasn't sure when the younger witchers came or if Vesemir got any letters; he remembered Geralt being preoccupied by different matters when setting out on his Path. He went south, his plans were so at least, down as far as the Yaruga, Transriver even — but he hasn't heard anything on the other end of the continent. Most of the time, he was hardly worried, he knew the famed White Wolf could handle himself in a fight; but, something about the past weeks was leaving a sour taste in his mouth — and it had nothing to do with the quality of his wine. 

"What I heard, some rumours had he was killed." He was certain those rumours spread throughout Temeria, diluted and twisted by the time it circulated in Oxenfurt or Novigrad or wherever the news reached Coën. And, although it didn't seem like a lie, he was wary of believing his word — he knew Geralt more than to trust rumours. An exaggeration probably; injured in a fight against something big and with Nilfgaard looming so close, paranoia had people whispering about the defeat of the legendary witcher. 

"Nah, he's a tougher son of a bitch. Besides," Lambert made a face of distaste, "that idiot of a poet he considers a friend said he was still looking for that someone." That was little more than nothing, hardly different from what Geralt shared with him last spring — but a far better outlook on his absence at Kaer Morhen. 

* * *

When Geralt finally arrived, he wasn't alone. If he didn't know better, he'd say the girl was Geralt's, sired in some far off land and now brought along for some reason that transcended any code of conduct or their famed neutrality. Though he was in no place to judge; fleeing his own Destiny instead of facing it. But that was in the past now. And Geralt helped him then; it was only fair he reciprocated the favour now. They were brothers, they hadn't anyone else to rely on — and even when they did, some of them were too proud to ever admit needing help. 

The announcement that night that Ciri was _their_ Destiny had him grinding his teeth but he said nothing in front of the others — or the girl. It wasn't until later that night, after Geralt put the girl to sleep and they were sitting on the ramparts with a bottle of wine, that concerns spilled from his lips — worries based on past and present experiences. Nothing he said was against the girl or Geralt's protectiveness over her, but he's had his fair share of all kinds of Destiny. 

"She's not just some little princess from an unimportant principality. Nilfgaard is going to knock on our doors, not a band of mercenaries." It was only rationality speaking from him even if it felt like undermining what Geralt did — but as his friend, he also felt responsible to offer another opinion. How his purposeful ignorance of his own Destiny left him with many regrets, he was certain not speaking his mind would eat at him a lot longer than a minor hang-up in their friendship. 

"Don't come with the same excuses Lambert did." Even if his tone was hostile, the gaze that followed was more tired than anything. He knew Geralt spent the better half of the year searching for Ciri; and now when he brought her to what he thought of as shelter, he ran into concern and skepticism. In the past, he was already in a position where he found it hard to choose a side between _neutrality_ and compassion; he didn't want to be caught like that again. "She's staying." 

It was never his intention to change his mind but it was clear now that he wouldn't be able to, even if he wanted. But there were other concerns, more immediate than any army marching up to Kaer Morhen; the girl herself. They've all seen what happened when she drank White Seagull; and it frightened them all. It was a mild hallucinogen, nothing that would be harmful even to those who hasn't gone through the Trial of the Grasses or the Changes. Yet, the reaction was stronger than any witcher in known history ever had. 

"But we need help. It's not just hysteria or whatever Lambert wants to pin it as." There was a sigh from Geralt, one that said he knew, then silence. Weighing his options probably, though for him it was obvious who Geralt should confide in — only one sorceress he knew well enough and had the experience. The best course of action to invite her, watch over Ciri in the safety of Kaer Morhen; here they could make sure the girl wouldn't be just a test subject in a series of despicable experiments. He was used to gruesome sights but what he learnt of sorceresses and mages in regards to their methods, was enough to make him feel sick to his core. "Maybe Ye-" 

"No." He knew her and Geralt didn't part under the best conditions. The exact details were their secret — and whoever heard the insults and grievances thrown around — but he was told enough on drunken nights to know the anger in his reply was meant for someone else. He shrugged off the apology Geralt muttered; he shouldn't have brought her up, there was blame on him, too. "Let the past be." 

"Then who?" Even though they both met their fair share of mages and sorceresses, most was out of the question — past disagreements, courtly influence or even just as simple as lack of experience. And, lately, diminished numbers after the second battle of Sodden. If it was only a rumour; that would've made it easier for both Ciri and Geralt — who still stubbornly refused in some hidden corner of his heart that Triss could be dead. Even if he saw with his own eyes the engravings, even if he was the one telling them the news. "There's no one else. We need Yennefer. And to face our pasts." 

* * *

Facing his own past — negligence, fear or mistakes made in inexperience — was far easier than he imagined. Though it was not his own merit alone; though ofttimes a handful, Ciri was a promising talent in all parts of the craft. He's seen her train on the Gauntlet with Geralt or Lambert, spar with Coën — which all left her with less and less bruises by the day — while him and Vesemir took on more theoretical lessons. 

"Now add the arnica to the mixture." It was all of their firm agreement that they wouldn't — they couldn't — put her through the Trial or Changes. Still, he saw it beneficial if she knew some basic potions that, if nothing else, could bring her some coin. He was by no means an expert but fairly more competent than any of the witchers present; and more willing to spend hours by a stove. "Careful, girl. You're going to burn yourself." 

"I was being careful." At that moment, with the pout and crossed arms, he could see the princess in her — even if she was set on being nothing else but a witcheress. She was headstrong, which in itself wasn't the worst of traits to have; but he often caught himself mumbling _like her father_. He only shook his head now, though; Ciri already learnt it that this wasn't a place to run around, swinging swords. "Eskeeeeel, it's taking sooooo long." 

Patience, that came with longevity and the hunt itself, wasn't yet a virtue she developed — though he had his doubts that not even Vesemir had much of it at her age; neither did he but it was too long a time ago. Potion-making certainly wasn't the most exciting sides to a witcher's life — only gathering ingredients being more tedious — but nonetheless an important skill to possess. It wasn't every day a witcher stumbled into a herbalist or alchemist willing to part with their wares free of charge, however. 

"All right, c'mere then." He waited for Ciri to clamber onto the rickety stool, eager to do anything else than wait. The first few days, he struggled to identify who Ciri — or some traits, that is — reminded him of. Her looks put her somewhere between Geralt and Deidre, the ashen blonde taking on silvery notes in the sunlight; this comparison came easy to him. But feelings and traits that witchers lacked or had only a simmer of, proved to be more difficult. After her initial fear passed, she was left with passion instead — though often that bordered on stubbornness or even rebelling. And, when he consciously or otherwise paired the traits with the memory of Helygen, vodniks and that night he spent with them, he accidentally called her Lilja. Nothing of that memory was brought up ever since — not until now. "Take good care of this." 

The emeralds stared up at him from under unruly hair, even wider than usual as he handed her a folded piece of parchment. It was nothing special, it held no real value — but Ciri would see more use to it. A sort of letter of safe conduct, proof that they were the same kin — though denying help from those in need hardly seemed like a habit she would've picked up in the past years since he's last seen her. He let Ciri read the words out loud though he inadvertently memorised it; quite the reminder that not all humans were spiteful or frightened. 

Explaining what use she might have of it, the thought how much his perception of Ciri changed in the weeks since Geralt brought her along crossed his mind — he couldn't imagine parting with the note before. And now, he was glad it gained function again instead if being a worthless piece of clutter. The sizzling behind his back and Ciri's enthusiastic exclaim of _'finally'_ had his attention before he could've sunk deeper into the past — they promised with Geralt that this would be a time of moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a lot of time but I hope everyone who's been waiting for it enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> It's been never mentioned that Ciri learnt any alchemy or potion making but some of CDPR's comic shows her at least knowing them so it seemed the obvious teacher should be the one not shown to teach her anything in the books.


End file.
